


a happy life - singular services

by TransformTheBat



Category: The Prisoner (1967)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-15
Updated: 2020-03-15
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:35:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23163352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TransformTheBat/pseuds/TransformTheBat
Summary: An American secret agent with a spotty record finds himself confined to an idyllic villa.  Can he escape?
Kudos: 2





	1. prologue

The drop had happened exactly on schedule.  
  
His descent had gone off without a hitch.  
  
The two mile trek to the base occurred without incident, he had easily avoided the few incompetent guards, and he had not triggered a single alarm. Everything was going so smoothly, it almost worried him.  
  
He deftly retrieved his lockpick, but paused a moment. _It wouldn't be_ , he thought, _that would be too much_. He tried the handle. It turned silently and the door clicked open.  
  
It was unlocked.  
  
He thought again about how lucky he was to be on this assignment, any assignment, after he'd FUBAR'ed the mission in Havana to such an embarrassing degree. Fenway had been an important tool for the company. He didn't know exactly how important of course, that's not how it worked. But Control dropped enough hints. And now Fenway was dead.  
  
He mustn't think about it. Entering the dark room, he closed the door silently behind himself.  
  
He pulled his glasses from his breast pocket. Included among their many functions was night-vision; they would be more subtle than a flashlight at this delicate juncture. After a few quick adjustments the glasses provided a more useful view of the room. Glowing green filing cabinets, a desk and chair of similar hue, and a viridian world map on the wall were all clearly visible. As he made his way to the cabinets, he pulled out another tool of his trade: a microfiche camera, which also appeared green through the lenses.  
  
It was an easy mission. A plum job. He couldn't imagine he was being rewarded after the Fenway incident. It had to be caution, then. The company must be worried he would fail once more. He was back to proving himself, his ability to complete even the most mundane of tasks. _If that's what it takes_ , he thought, _I'll do coffee runs until they can trust me again_.  
  
He opened the top drawer of the filing cabinet.  
  
The files weren't labeled. Standard practice in such matters. It would take a little longer, but he could still find what he was looking for. He pulled out the first file, opened it for a cursory glance at the papers inside.  
  
They were blank.  
  
He pulled another file, opened it. It too, was full of blank papers.  
  
He rummaged through the rest of the files in a matter of moments, each of them filled with the same infuriatingly blank pages. He adjusted his glasses once, then again. He ran through their functions one by one, hoping he'd stumble upon the setting that would reveal invisible ink, a watermark, something.  
  
Nothing.  
  
The company would not be happy. He'd failed again. Slowly, carefully, he put the papers back in the files as best he could, put the files back in the cabinet. Control would put him behind a desk after this. His days as a field agent were numbered.  
  
As a last ditch effort he checked the desk. Sliding out the center drawer he found nothing, neither a pencil nor a scrap of paper. There was nothing in the large drawers underneath; they were even clean of dust. Is that why it had been so easy to sneak in? Was there no longer anything worth guarding here? As he quietly closed the last drawer his nose perked up. A familiar smell filled his nostrils.  
  
Knock-out gas.  
  
He'd been a fool. He should have listened to his instincts. He should have turned back earlier, but he'd been so eager to prove his worth to the company. So eager to make up for what had happened with Fenway. He leaned on the desk. His eyelids grew heavy. _Goddamnit_ , he thought, _I've done it again_.  
  
 _I've screwed the pooch_.


	2. Ch.1 - arrival

Consciousness returned slowly. His senses came back to him one by one. First was smell, and immediately he noticed no lingering scent of gas. If anything his surroundings smelled pleasant, like tea and conifers. Next came touch, and he felt the comfortable mattress beneath him, the clean sheet covering his chest and legs. Hearing returned, and birds chirped outside; but outside what?  
  
Finally he was able to open his eyes. For several seconds he stared in disbelief. Had it all been a dream? He was surrounded by his own bedroom. The bed was his bed, the sheet his sheet. He pulled it aside and examined himself, confused by the realization that he was wearing his pajamas. He sat upright, steadying himself. His head ached. Had it been the knockout-gas? Or was he out drinking again last night? What was the last thing he could accurately remember?  
  
He placed his feet on the worn carpet, putting all his weight on them and standing upright. The carpet was his carpet; he could feel it, familiar and comforting beneath his bare feet. He flipped the light-switch on the wall, but no illumination was forthcoming. He flipped it off and on again, to no effect.  
  
The dread he had been holding back flooded him. The target had been across an ocean from his home, yet here he was.  
  
How long had he been unconscious? He ran his palm against his jawline, but found no stubble. _Get a hold of yourself_ , he thought, _you're trained for this sort of thing_. He moved cautiously toward the telephone, which sat on his mother's old nightstand under the window as always. There was a chance his phone had been bugged. There was a chance the Russians could be listening. But he had no other choice. He had to try to call the company.  
  
He picked up the receiver and put it to his ear. Silence. Now, more than ever, he was sure something was wrong. His mental faculties were starting to return. He was sharper now, clearer of mind. He would search the room; if someone had been here he would find the evidence. But first he needed light. He brushed aside the window curtain, and was already turning back to the rest of the room when he saw it out of the corner of his eye. He looked back in amazement, eyes wide as saucers. There was no way this could be. It was impossible.  
  
 _Impossible_ , he thought.  
  
Beyond his window was not the idyllic Virginian suburb to which he had been assigned. There was no quiet road, no bright blue mailbox, no picket fence, and no houses identical to his, stretching indefinitely to the right and left. No. Instead he saw a quaint Italianate village dotted with trees and flowers, snaked through with small cobblestone pathways. In the line of duty he had been many places and seen many things. He knew what every culture and locale had to offer. But this was unfamiliar.  
  
His first instinct, as always, was to reach into his mother's old nightstand. His hand hit the wooden bottom of the drawer. There was no gun to grab. Why would there be? Still, he needed a weapon, anything to turn the tide of a possible altercation. Lacking a better alternative, he grabbed the small stone statue from next to the phone. The statue was his small stone statue, or was it? Was this even his bedroom, or just an amazing replica? _Focus_ , he told himself. Curiosity killed the cat; if he wanted to get home he had to leave. He had to walk out the door and go. Control could sort out what happened when he was safe.  
  
There was a knock at the door.  
  
His head whipped toward the noise. The door to his bedroom led out into the hallway. Someone was in his house. Assuming this was his house. His grip on the statue tightened. He walked to the door, bare feet sinking into his carpet. Statue in striking position, he reached out his free hand and grabbed the knob. He turned it silently and the door clicked open.  
  
The small group standing outside the door was not what he expected to see. In fact, nothing outside the door was what he expected to see. There was no hallway. Instead a cobblestone path approached his door, small cottages standing on either side. Flowers and potted plants littered the area. Under different circumstances it might have been beautiful.  
  
"Hello," said the man at the head of the group, "Welcome to the Village." He had a swarthy complexion, and a dark goatee framed his thin, smiling lips. His speech was strange; English was not his first language. The swarthy man wore khakis and a piped, green blazer, with a circular pin on his chest. On the pin was a line-drawing of a penny-farthing bicycle with the number "142" inside.  
  
To the swarthy man's right was an Asian woman in khakis and a striped shirt; her pin read "63." To his left was a Caucasian man, also in khakis and with a powder blue blazer, also with piped lapels. On the man's pin was the number "38."  
  
All three of them wore what looked like a blue ribbon with the symbol of an eye in its center.  
  
'The what?'  
  
The man with the goatee continued smiling. "The Village." He gestured to his associates. "I am Number 142. These are my companions Number 63 and Number 38."  
  
"Hello," said 38.  
  
He loosened his grip on the statue. They didn't seem as though they meant him any harm. 'What is this place?'  
  
"A blessing," said Number 142, smiling wider still.  
  
'And where is it?'  
  
Number 142 closed his eyes peacefully as he spoke, placing his hands in front of himself, palms up. "Heaven on Earth." Number 142 brought his hands down to his sides slowly and opened his eyes. "It is too bad that you missed our morning services. Number 3 gave a particularly stirring oration on the value of acquiescence and obedience. However, there are night services after supper." Number 38 leaned in to whisper in 142's ear.  
  
He made sure his grip on the statue was firm.  
  
Number 142 nodded to 38 as he continued. "We have many residences to call on, and cannot stay long." He extended his hand; it held some papers and one of those blue ribbons. "Here is a Worship Pin, a small brochure about our services, and a complimentary map from the Church of Singularism. Perhaps we will see you tonight at the services?"  
  
He took the map and brochure from 142's hand, leaving the ribbon. 'Did you say map?'  
  
For the first time Number 142's smile fell, even if only slightly. "Yes, we-"  
  
'Thank you.' He practically slammed the door in their faces.  
  
He walked back to his bed and sat down, tossing the small statue lightly into the center of the mattress. Ignoring the brochure, he opened the map, eager to discover his location. The colorful map spread across most of his bed, hiding the statue and brochure beneath it. He scanned the map thoroughly. He read every word, then gritted his teeth in frustration.  
  
The map showed a small seaside town surrounded on three sides by mountains, which were labeled only "the mountains." The sea, to the fourth side, was similarly labeled "the sea," which jutted up against "the beach." A number of buildings were labeled succinctly, with names such as "cafe," "general store," and "town hall." Across the bottom of the map, surrounded by the robin's egg blue of the sea, the map was labeled simply "your village."  
  
He brushed the map, still open, to the floor. It would be of no use to him. Reluctantly, he reached for the brochure. _I'd rather leave than study local culture_ , he thought, _but there might be something useful in here_. The front was emblazoned with the blue eye symbol. Under the eye it read, in large, bold letters, "The Church of Singularism." He sighed. Had he been kidnapped by a cult? It couldn't be the Russians. He opened it, squinting at the tiny writing inside.  
  
Suddenly the lights turned on. He almost reached for the statue again, but steadied himself. He looked over at the light switch. He had left it in the on position a few minutes ago.  
  
He looked back down at the tri-folded paper in his hands, speed-reading easily in the illumination. The church worshiped a deity they called "No. 1," and it was run by an individual called "No. 3." He wondered what had happened to Number 2.  
  
His phone rang. The phone was his phone, but the ring was unfamiliar: a shrill, industrial beeping. He stood again, stepping on the map as he made his way to the nightstand. His gaze ran across the absurd view from the window as he took the receiver to his ear.  
  
'Hello?'  
  
"Meet me for lunch," said the voice on the phone. It was a British woman. By her accent she was from the west-end of London. "Number 2. The green dome." There was a clicking noise, then a dial tone. She had hung up.  
  
There had been a green dome on the Village map; perhaps it would come in handy after all. He picked up the map, folding it and setting it on his bed, next to the brochure and statue. Out of habit, he opened the second drawer of his dresser, but found no clothes. Though he suspected what would happen, he opened his closet to find no shoes. Apparently he would meet Number 2 in his sleepwear, and barefoot. Decorum mattered little to him, but he would have felt better about needing to run, or needing to fight, if he were a little more prepared. No matter. A lady had requested his presence, and he mustn't keep her waiting.  
  
He grabbed the map and stuffed it in the breast pocket of his silk pajama top. He walked toward the door, ready to turn the knob, but it opened automatically with a mechanical whir. He looked from side to side to see if anyone was there, and, seeing no one, stepped out into the Village.


	3. Ch.2 - meet the old boss

The green dome wasn't far. A few steps down an immaculate path, across a quaint street wide enough for perhaps a single vehicle, and he stood before it. There was a dome, and it was green; the building had been named as imaginatively as the cafe or town hall. He ascended the worn, stone steps lined with colorful flowers, careful not to stub his exposed toes, and studied the door at the top  
  
It was modern and white; clean, heavy and large. A golden numeral, attached to the door at eye level, shone in the morning sun. But was the dome itself Number 2, or the woman inside? He pulled the bellrope to his right, the small golden plumb-bob cold against his palm. Somewhere inside a bell rang, deep and open. He shifted his weight from bare foot to bare foot; tense, waiting. His training told him to be ready for anything.  
  
The door opened, revealing a midget in a fine suit beckoning him inside. The short man was balding heavily but what hair remained was pitch black. The expression on his craggy face conveyed either disdain or boredom. He wore no badges, neither of worship, nor numerical.  
  
 _Finally_ , he thought, _someone in charge_. 'I'd like to speak to the American consulate,' he said.  
  
The man did not respond verbally, but his pug nose wrinkled even more.  
  
'Listen here,' he said, _stay calm_ , 'I'm starting to lose patience-'  
  
He was cut off by a familiar female voice, emanating from the small foyer of the green dome. "Come now dear, one never goes to the help for answers."  
  
Taking his eyes off the small man, he stepped into the foyer.  
  
"That's it," her voice said, seemingly coming from nowhere, "past the Butler, round the table."  
  
He cautiously made his way between a varnished oak table and a white plaster fireplace that had never been used. His heart quickened, sure he was being led into a trap. As he approached a pair of white double-doors, they opened with a mechanical whir. "Go ahead dear," the voice continued, "step in." On the other side of the double-doors was a small steel chamber, just large enough for a man to stand in.  
  
'I'd rather not,' he projected, looking about the room for the amplification system. As he knew, they could get pretty small nowadays, about the size of a human hand.  
  
The steel wall in front of him split in two, revealing a large circular room beyond the small chamber. At the centerpoint of the room was a control desk replete with colorful buttons and switches, behind which spun a spherical black chair. Stopping, the chair revealed a middle-aged woman sitting within, wearing a grey minidress and a Number 2 pin. "Does that help?" she asked, her voice no longer amplified in the foyer, "Come now; step in my dear."  
  
He entered the round room. A small metal ramp descended at his feet.  
  
"We must get you a pair of shoes, Number 9."  
  
Number Nine's teeth gritted. 'Number what?'  
  
Number 2 brushed aside the question with a practiced gesture. "Oh it's no trouble. We try to take care of our guests. It will only take a moment. Come in, please. Take a seat."  
  
Number Nine glowered angrily around the almost empty room as Number 2 retrieved a closed umbrella from beside her sphere. 'I'd rather stand,' he barked. Using the umbrella tip, 2 tapped at a far-away button on the control desk. Nine tensed, ready for an attack.  
  
A small portion of the floor retracted, circular, perhaps the size of a manhole. Before Number Nine could decide on a course of action, a comfortable if practical chair had shot out of the hole and steadied itself, as if it had been there the whole time.  
  
Nine stared at it like one might stare at dog feces.  
  
Number 2 reached to her buttons again with the umbrella. "You will, I hope, take a pair of shoes, if not a seat." The short man, the Butler she had called him, appeared from the foyer, rolling a silver cart down the small ramp. It was bare, save for a single, unmarked shoebox. "What's your size?"  
  
'Ten and a half.'  
  
The Butler placed his hands on the box.  
  
'American.'  
  
The Butler turned the box so its end was toward Number Nine, revealing a kitschy and colorful sticker labeling them as size ten and a half. "Black or brown?"  
  
'Brown.' The Butler lifted off the lid.  
  
"Dress or loafer?"  
  
'Dress. Wing-tip.'  
  
The Butler lifted his side of the box, revealing to Number Nine the brown wing-tip dress shoes inside. 'I don't suppose you have any-' socks appeared next to the shoebox, placed gingerly by the Butler's tiny hand, '-socks.'  
  
The Butler gestured to the chair and Nine almost sighed. _What the hell_ , he thought, _my feet are cold_.  
  
Sitting in the chair while placing the shoes on his feet, Number Nine noted that neither of them were as comfortable as they had looked. _Even the footwear here is deceiving._ He placed his now protected feet to the floor and rose off the chair, prompting his host to speak. “I hope you're not leaving already.”  
  
'I think, now that I've accepted the lovely gift of these shoes, I'll go try them out. Perhaps...' _perhaps I'll leave this “Village” in my dust and never clap eyes on it again,_ 'another time.' Number Nine strode confidently, purposefully toward the foyer. Nothing could stop him now, certainly not an aging woman and an overweight midget. Once he was out the door of this stupid dome he could leave all this nonsense behind, just one more absurd anecdote from his long career of-  
  
“I thought perhaps you'd want to talk about Fenway.”  
  
Her voice cut through him worse than bullets, and he had plenty of experience for comparison. He stopped at the ramp, but did not turn around.  
  
“I hear Havana is lovely this time of year.”  
  
Nine breathed heavily as he steadied himself, almost hissing, then turned around sharply. 'So you're MI5, is that it?'  
  
2 responded through a smile, effortless confidence steadying her condescending tone. “I am Number 2. If you'd like, you may think of me as Mayor of the Village.”  
  
'I don't like to clutter my head with unnecessary information,' Nine said, sneering, 'Nothing personal, I just won't be here long.'  
  
“Going somewhere?”  
  
'Away from here.'  
  
“I see.” 2 almost chuckled. “Can I at least interest you in a farewell meal before your journey? Perhaps one of your American cheeseburgers?”  
  
Nine paused, taking his time to craft the perfect witty riposte with which to outdo this charming English matron, the ideal button to an even game of verbal cat and mouse.  
  
'Get stuffed,' he said, walking up the ramp.


End file.
